James Rollins - Innocent Blood

Finally, he settled down. “Hope the food here is better than at that hippie place Christian took us to in San Fran. Vegan food? Really? I’m a meat-and-potatoes sort of guy. And in my particular case, I lean more toward the meat side of that equation.”

“This is Italy. Something tells me you might get lucky with the food.”

“Indeed you shall!” a new voice called behind them, coming from the door to the first car.

Startled, Jordan came close to bursting out of his seat and swinging around, but even he recognized the slight German accent to those few words.

“Brother Leopold!” Erin exclaimed, delighted to see the monk, along with the tray he carried, holding a coffee service.

She hadn’t seen the German monk since the day he had saved her life. He looked the same — with his wire-rimmed spectacles, simple brown habit, and boyish grin.

“Never fear, breakfast will be served in a moment.” Leopold lifted the tray. “But first, Christian mentioned that you were both desperately in need of a jolt of caffeine after your long journey.”

“If you define jolt as a full pot of coffee, you are correct.” Jordan smiled. “It’s good to see you again, Leopold.”

“Likewise.”

The monk bustled over and filled their china cups with a steaming dark roast blend. The train had begun to slowly move, the timbre of the engines stoking higher.

Christian appeared again and took the seat opposite Erin, staring pointedly at the steaming cup in her hands.

Familiar with his routine, she handed him the white china cup. He brought it to his nose, closed his eyes, and sniffed deeply at the curl of steam. An expression of contentment crossed his face.

“Thank you,” he said and handed the cup back to her.

As a young Sanguinist, he wasn’t as far removed from simple human pleasures, like coffee. She liked that.

“Any news?” Jordan asked him. “Like where we’re going?”

“I was told that once we’re outside of Rome, we’ll learn more. Meantime, I say we savor the calm.”

“As in, before the storm ?” Erin asked.

Christian chuckled. “Most probably.”

Jordan seemed content enough with that answer. During the trip here, he and Christian had become fast friends, unusually so considering Jordan’s distaste and distrust for the Sanguinists after Rhun had bitten her.

As the line of cars inched away from the station, the train headed toward a set of steel doors that blocked the tracks a few hundred yards ahead, set into the massive walls that surrounded the Holy City. The gateway sported rivets and thick doornails and looked as if it were meant to guard a medieval castle.

A train whistle sounded, and the doors rumbled ponderously apart, sliding into the brick wall. This gate marked the border between Vatican City and Rome.

Passing beneath that archway under a head of steam, the train picked up speed and headed out into Rome. The train pulled through the city, like any ordinary train — only theirs had a mere three cars: the galley in front, the dining car in the middle, and a third compartment in back. The last car looked similar to the others from the outside, but its curtains had been drawn, and a solid metal door separated that car from hers.

As she looked at that door now, she tried to ignore the tightening dread in her stomach.

What was back there?

“Ah,” Brother Leopold exclaimed, drawing her attention. “As promised… breakfast.”

From the galley, a new figure emerged, as familiar as Leopold, if not as welcome.

Father Ambrose — aide to Cardinal Bernard — stepped from the galley car with a tray of omelets, brioche, butter, and jam. The priest’s round face looked even redder than usual, damp with sweat or perhaps from the steam of the galley kitchen. He didn’t look happy with his role as waiter.

“Good morning, Father Ambrose,” Erin said. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

She did her best to make that sound genuine.

Ambrose didn’t even bother. “Dr. Granger, Sergeant Stone,” he said perfunctorily, inclining his head fractionally toward each of them.

The priest unloaded the food and returned to the galley car.

Clearly, he wasn’t interested in conversation.

She wondered if his presence indicated that Cardinal Bernard was already on board. She glanced again to that steel door leading to the neighboring compartment.

Next to her, Jordan simply tore into his omelet, as if he might not see food again for days — which, considering their past experiences with the Sanguinists, could be true.

Following his example, she spread jam onto a slice of brioche.

Christian watched all the while, looking envious.

By the time their plates were empty, the train had threaded out of Rome and appeared to be heading south of the city.

Jordan’s hand again found hers under the table. She stroked her fingertips along his palm, liking the smile it provoked. As much as the thought of a relationship scared her, for him she was ready to take the risk.

But a certain awkwardness remained between them. No matter how hard she tried not to, her thoughts often returned to the moment when Rhun had bitten her. No mortal man had ever made her feel like that. But the act had meant nothing, a mere necessity. She wondered if that bone-deep bliss was a trick of the strigoi to disable their victims, to turn them weak and helpless.

Her fingers inadvertently found themselves touching the scars on her neck.

She wanted to ask someone about it. But who? Certainly not Jordan. She considered asking Christian, to inquire what it had been like for him when he was first bitten. Back at the diner in San Francisco, he had seemed to sense her thoughts, but she had balked at discussing such an erotic experience with any man, especially a priest.

Still, not all her hesitation was embarrassment.

She knew a part of her didn’t want to know the truth.

What if the feeling of connectedness that she had experienced wasn’t just a mechanism to quiet prey? What if it was something else?

Rhun awoke to a feeling of dread and panic. His arms flailed up and to the side, expecting to feel stone walls enclosed around him.

His memories filled back in.

He was free.

As he listened to the clack of steel wheels on tracks, he remembered the battle at the edge of the Holy City. He had suffered some minor wounds, but worst of all, the battle had drained the last dregs of his strength, returning him to a weakened state. Cardinal Bernard had insisted he rest while they waited for the arrival of Erin and Jordan.

Even now he could hear the thump of human hearts, the timpani of their beats as familiar to his keen ears as any song. He ran his palms over his body. He wore a dry set of robes, the reek of old wine gone. He eased himself upright, testing each vertebra as he did so.

“Careful, my son,” Bernard said out of the darkness of the train car. “You are not yet restored to your full health.”

As Rhun’s eyes adjusted and focused, he recognized the papal sleeping car, outfitted with the double bed upon which he had slept. There was also a small desk and a pair of silk chairs flanking a couch.

He spotted a familiar figure standing behind Bernard at his bedside. She wore tailored leather armor and a silver chain belt. Her black hair had been braided back from the stern lines of her dark face.

“Nadia?” he croaked out.

When had she arrived?

“Welcome back to the living,” Nadia said with a sly smile. “Or as close to living as any Sanguinist can claim.”

Rhun touched his brow. “How long—?”

He was interrupted by the final figure in the room. She lounged on the couch, one leg stretched up, outfitted with a splint. He remembered her limping flight down the cobblestone street toward the Holy City.